The Phantom of the Opera: Hellsing Style
by FaeryTale Faever
Summary: The Phantom of the Opera story with Hellsing characters. Starring Seras Victoria as Christine Daae, Pip Bernadotte as her childhood friend Raoul, Integra Hellsing as Madam Giry (character-wise), Rip Van Winkle as Carlotta, and our favorite King of Vampires as the mysterious, now fully supernatural Phantom of the Opera.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I felt a random hankering to watch the Phantom of the Opera, then to read a Hellsing fanfic about it. When I saw that there were no complete Hellsing / Phantom of the Opera crossovers… I was stunned, to say the least. You would think the two would go together like red and blood. I'll only be covering Andrew-Lloyd Webber's musical and Joel Schumacker's 2004 film. Furthermore, I retooled the story to take place in London since most of Hellsing's cast is British and it suited the overall story better.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement here. If I made money off this, I could live off it instead of having to find time to write between university, homework, and a job to pay my bills.

* * *

It was 1919 in London, in front of Her Majesty's (Former) Theatre. Industrial smog filled the air, and black automobiles puttered along the streets alongside the increasingly superfluous horse-drawn carriages. It was a chilly autumn morning, with dust and fallen leaves swirled around the former opera house to show its decline and neglect. Most homeless and working class filled the streets, going about their work and business. Many young urchins tried to sell newspapers, polish shoes, vendors tried to sell little odds and ends, etc. A few smartly dressed rich folks walked in and out of the now-abandoned opera house.

An old man with straggled white hair and wrinkled, botched skin exited his taxi, and slowly approached. He was called back and testily paid the taxi man—charlatan!—and then once more regarded the opera house. The years had not been kind to it, but then neither had they been kind to him. He was painfully old, arthritic, and hobbled. He could no longer stand up straight, nor walk without a cane. His joints were gnarled and knobby, and his skin was spotted and sallow, and hung like limp cloths around his eyes, cheeks, jowls, and… everything. He imagined he looked like his grandpa had looked; that proud old soldier that died so long ago.

He glared at the smartly dressed aristocracy that walked easily up the very same steps that were giving him so much trouble—and, worse, that one smooth-faced old codger that could afford servants and nurses to push him up the steps in his wheelchair. Not all of us could afford such assistances, you fat old larva!

Not that he would have accepted help even if offered, as he gruffly waved away a footman that offered to take his arm. He wasn't that old yet, thank you very much!

And so he grumbled to himself as he made his way up the stairs, as grumpy old men are wont to do, and he made his way into the rundown old theatre, that had served Her Majesty faithfully for nearly a century before her untimely end half a century before. Journalist Malcolm from Old and New London had described it as, "fronted by a stone basement in rustic work, with the commencement of a very superb building of the Doric order, consisting of three pillars, two windows, an entablature, pediment, and balustrade. This, if it had been continued, would have contributed considerably to the splendour of London; but the unlucky fragment is fated to stand as a foil to the vile and absurd edifice of brick pieced to it, which I have not patience to describe."

So much for that! Didn't they pay these journalists by the word? Why couldn't he be bothered to describe it!

Over the front entrance hung a great banner announcing: "PUBLIC AUCTION TODAY."

About time they cleared all this rubbish from this dusty old rubble-they'd certainly waited long enough for it!

The antechamber inside was even more dusty, leaf-filled, and cobweb-ridden than outside. It looked like the scene described in a Gothic novel—an old stone building that was once grand and beautiful, now full of death, decay, and disrepair; with nothing but ghosts and shadows to tell its history.

He could hear the auctioneer go on with the proceedings further along inside, as he hobbled his way in. Pompous, self-centered British men, all of them.

"… Sold. Your number, sir? Thank you. Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen. A poster from this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumau."

"Showing here," the porter announced, holding up the poster.

"Do I have ten pounds?" the auctioneer proceeded, in his brisk, posh, professional voice. "Five then. Five I am bid. Six. Seven. Against you sir, seven. Eight? Eight once. Selling twice." The gavel banged. "Sold to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much sir."

The two porters walked the painting off the stage, to be given to its new owner.

Our dear old man scowled. It was even worse than he'd thought. The inside of the place looked terribled—everything was covered with a layer of dust an inch thick, with webs so huge they could trap a small pigeon in them. There were certainly plenty of pigeons about, fluttering between the dust-covered rafters and scaffolding. The high stone windows (with intricately carved frames, of course) were loosely boarded up with plywood, which allowed pillars of light to shine in—the only source of light in the dead old place. The auctioneer stood on a makeshift stage of crude wood. The only clean items in the entire opera house were the people and the large collection of furniture and other junk they'd pilfered.

"Like vultures," the old man thought. This whole place was like a giant corpse, and they'd come in and picked at every scrap and organ they could get their flabby little jowls on, hoping to gorge themselves on every last scrap they make a penny on.

Then again, thought the old man with a snort, he was just like them. He was the oldest and meanest vulture of them all.

"Lot 664," the auctioneer continued, "a wooden pistol and three human skulls... From the 1831 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer. Ten pounds for this. Ten, thank you. Ten still. 15, thank you. I5 I'm bid. Going at 15. Your number, sir?"

The old man showed his auction number to show that he was supposed to be here.

"Lot 665 ladies and gentlemen."

As this was going on, the old man caught sight of what looked like an aristocratic woman. This old bag was tall, thin, and long-limbed, and smartly dressed in a conservatively cut but still lacy black dress, with a black hat and veil over her face as though in mourning. The aristocratic lady had long, straight yellow hair, which had been pulled up into a fashionable loose curled bun, wherein her hat was pinned. She had slightly wrinkled and swarthy skin, and sharp blue eyes framed in round spectacles. The old man snorted. All those years of chain-smoking fancy cigars, and this old biddy looked like a smooth, only slightly frayed papier mache doll, while he looked like a weathered old scarecrow beaten with a stick? Life wasn't fair.

The noblewoman stood tall and rigid, with that same old air of iron dignity and propriety. Those hard blue eyes, unsoftened and unchanged with age, were fixed on the auctioneer as he prattled away; that stern mouth set in a frown.

The noblewoman's eyes then lingered over the old man, and then fixed his eyes in a piercing gaze. Their eyes remained locked for several heartbeats—though it felt like a lifetime. A lifetime had passed between them in that held gaze, a secret and a history that only they shared, that the rest of the world could not know, and thus was excluded and blurred to only semi-existence.

A porter pulled out Lot 665.

"A papier mache musical box in the shape of a barrel organ," the auctioneer said. "Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals."

The old Brit and the old Parisian slowly pulled their eyes away from each other, and looked instead toward the item in question.

"This item," the auctioneer continued, "discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

"Showing here," the porter announced, holding up the music box.

The little unassuming monkey banged two little cymbals that never touched over and over as the music box played a slow, soft, sad, tinkling little melody. _Masquerade_.

The old man's stern countenance melted for the first time. His face was no longer set in a hard scowl, but drooped into one of deep sorrow and awe. His hard eyes no longer pierced in anger. Tears pooled around them, and they looked lost in nostalgia and longing. It was impossible to read the expression of the noblewoman, but it was impossible to call said expression indifferent as well.

The auctioneer announced, "May I commence at 15 pounds?"

Lady Hellsing raised a gloved hand.

"15, thank you."

The old man jabbed his hand in the air.

"Yes, 20 from you, sir."

Lady Hellsing raised a delicate hand again.

"Thank you very much. Sir Hellsing 25. Thank you, Sir." The auctioneer looked to the auctioneers. "25 I'm bid. Do I hear 30?"

The old man looked desperate as he raised his hand. This was all he could afford. Damn, he didn't think it'd raise this high, this fast.

"30. And do I hear 35?" the auctioneer asked as he leaned toward Lady Hellsing.

Her eyes flashed back at the old man. They both knew she could keep bidding higher if she wanted to, but the bid he just made was the highest he could go. If she put in another bid, the music box would be hers. She wanted it—but he wanted it more. She had more money, though, so she could have it if she chose. Her decision would determine the outcome.

She looked at the auctioneer.

The auctioneer looked at her.

Slowly, she lowered her eyes, and shook her head.

"Selling at 30 shillings then," the auctioneer said. "30 once. 30 twice." The gavel banged. "Sold, for 30 pounds to a Monsieur Pippen de Bernadotte."

He nearly collapsed from relief.

"Thank you, sir," the auctioneer said, nodding toward him.

The porter stepped off the stage and handed the music box to the old man. Though grumpy and worse for wear, he accepted it and held it as gently as though it were a newborn child.

Pools teared around his eyes as he gazed at it lovingly. "A collector's piece indeed..." he thought, "Every detail exactly as she said... She often spoke of you, my friend... Your velvet lining and you figurine of lead..."

It wasn't fair. She'd always been so spry and healthy. She used to chastise him about smoking and drinking - and he would laugh and pull her into his lap if he happened to be sitting, kiss her if he happened to be standing. He gave up soldiering and whoring when he met her - but he could never resist a pint with the boys down at the pub, or a good smoke after a long day's work. He'd sooner give up breathing than a good smoke. Yet... all his bad habits, and she went first. All that beauty and health and talent, all robbed from the world. She'd left him all alone, yet he suspected he would join her soon.

He gazed sadly at the little monkey, who alone remained unchanged after all these years.

"Will you still play," he thought, "when all the rest of us are dead...?"

Unaware of his pain, the auctioneer continued, brisk and businesslike, "Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained."

Sir Hellsing's and Monsieur Bernadotte's eyes said otherwise.

"We are told, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer continued, "that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light," he gave a little smile, "Perhaps we can _frighten away_ the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!"

The great white drape flew off the chandelier. It was indeed bent and broken, with several bulbs still smashed. The devilish electric lights flickered on, and shined on that ancient and beautiful opera house that only ever knew light from the heavens, candles, or whale oil lamps. Seeing it light up for the first time after all these years, the old Persian and Parisian could almost hear the organ blare, a phantom sound that only they could hear, that had once been heard by all in this opera house so long ago. A few porters from up in a balcony pulled a chain attached to a pully, and the chandelier is raised, bringing new light and new life to the opera house that had been dead and dusty for so long. The light from the revived chandelier seemed to revive the opera house, and Pip Bernadotte and Integra Hellsing could almost see the opera as it had been when it had been new and colorful and vibrant and full of life, almost fifty years ago.

In the minds of their memory and nostalgia, the opera house became restored as they went back in time to the year 1867.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I made a few changes since the prologue.

1) I didn't know how to proceed until I decided to have the story take place in London rather than Paris, since most of Hellsing's cast is British. This will tie into the story since Pip is French.

2) I've changed the opera from the fictional Opera Populaire (based on the real-world Paris Opera) to Her Majesty's Theatre, a real London theatre that has a long and interesting history. Among other things, in the mid-Victorian Era it was famous for its ballets, then in the 1860's (thanks to a change in management) it became known for its operas, then in 1867 it burned down, and it had to move to a new location, where it remains to this day. Since _The Phantom of the Opera_ ends with disaster befalling the opera house, and the framing device in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and movie hint that the opera house has been abandoned for a while since the misfortune, it seemed like the perfect opera house to set this story in.

3) I removed all the racist comments about Integra's appearance. That may have been how people thought back then, but it's no excuse to put into my writing now. Of course, expect a few characters to find Integra's dusky skin odd, but no one's going to call her a Persian or an Indian for it. That's just rude.

Disclaimer: I do not own or make any money off any version of Hellsing or Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

Integra Hellsing's family had been dedicated patrons of Her Majesty's Theatre since before Her Majesty Queen Victoria took the throne. Her grandfather, Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, had come to London to assist a friend and former student in a personal matter that she did not learn the truth of until after her father's death. Old and infirm, he had originally intended to return to Amsterdam after his business was concluded. However, they said he had come to love England and his friends so much that he retired and soon died there. Ever fond of the arts, they said he had invested in His Majesty's Theatre (as it was called at the time) before his death, and had enjoyed every show for the rest of his days.

Her father, who had studied in one of England's finest schools, Oxford, and had served in one of Britain's greatest colonies, India, continued his father's patronage. Though Integra would never admit it out loud, least of all to herself, her father had been so fond of drink and women that he was practically an old man by the time he settled down and had a daughter. There was much controversy surrounding Integra's birth due to her father marrying a foreign woman from one of Britain's colonies, as well as her mother passing away before anyone in Britain had a chance to meet her, and Integra being much darker than the ideal English Rose.

While fatherhood made Arthur Hellsing more domesticated than he had previously been (his old Oxford schoolfellow Mr. Irons once remarked that he had "taken such sweet time sewing your wild oats that we all thought winter would come about before you settled down to harvest"), he still had a fondness for fine brandy, cigars, and pretty women. Therefore, in his time the theatre placed a greater emphasis on its ballet than it had previously done.

That is to say, they still put on plays, operas, and other forms of high class performances, but ballet took greater emphasis and won more renown over the others in this time.

From the early 1830s until the late 1840s Her Majesty's Theatre played host to the heyday of the era of the romantic ballet, and the theatre's resident ballet company was considered the most renowned in Europe, aside from the Ballet du Théâtre de l'Académie Royale de Musique in Paris. Benjamin Lumley was the director in those days, from 1842 to 1862, though Integra's father—indeed, the Hellsing family—directed from the shadows.

Integra herself might have taken to the ballet, but her father and uncle knew that she was too well-bred for such things. Ballet, at this point in history, was something only poor girls and orphans did. Women dancing in scant dresses and revealing their legs to a paying audience were seen as "public girls," no better than strippers or prostitutes. Everyone knew that high class girls were kept in the safety and privacy of their own homes, seen only by their fathers, husbands, and select group of close friends under the watchful eye of a chaperone. While Integra took lessons from age six to 12 and attended countless rehearsals and performances in her childhood until she could choreograph whole performances in her sleep, she never performed on stage.

In the early 1860's, however, her father's health began to decline, and then he suddenly died. As such, his brother, her uncle, Richard, shortly took over. With Britain's ballet already in decline during the 1850's (with the rise of the T'sar's Imperial Ballet in St. Petersburg, Russian), and thinking ballet not dignified enough for a theatre and family of their stature, he fired Lumley and hired a new director who placed a greater emphasis on opera. Had Richard been less belligerent about it, others would not have minded.

Her uncle died mysteriously in a tragic accident deep in the opera's basement when she was 12, as far as anyone knew.

As such, from 1862 until that fateful summer of 67 the theatre was managed by James Henry Mapleson, who presented Italian, French and German opera, including the British premieres of _La forza del destino_ , _Médée_ , _Faust_ and _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ , and Integra continued the family business of playing patron and _de facto_ shadow director to the _de jure_ manager of the theatre.

By the summer of 1867 Mapleson wished to retire, so there was nothing to do but hire a new manager. Wishing to keep management of the theatre close to the family, the Hellsing family retainer and opera repetiteur Walter made a bold suggestion.

On the day that the madness began, the theatre had been full to bursting with rehearsal. Integra's father had once remarked that it was far more interesting to see the the backstage of the theatre than to see anything they put on stage, as you got to see all the actors, singers, dancers, sculptors, costume designers, set designers, painters, sculptors, makeup artists, assistants, stage hands, the maestro, the orchestra, and many, many more all scrambling around to get ready for the performance. It was a scene of pure magic and artistic chaos, like a carnival or a circus.

Because the opening night of this season's opera was that night, everyone was fully dressed and/or making final adjustments to their costumes.

Ballet girls laughed and tittered as they dressed in their stockings and knee-length tulle skirts, putting ribbons in their hair, and sneaking drinks of wine when they thought Mistress Integra was not looking. The stage hands tested all the ropes and pulleys that controlled the stage's curtains and props, ensuring that all was in working order for opening night. A few workers tried to peak into the ballet and chorus girls' rooms, then flinched when Integra struck her cane against the hard wooden floor to remind them of their place.

While most of the chorus was fully dressed, a few had to make final adjustments to their outfits, and they came onto stage missing a piece of this or that costume, and one had to hold still while a tailor adjusted his wardrobe on stage.

The maestro, ever a perfectionist, handed out final drafts of the music to the band, and hounded them on every perceived flaw over the course of rehearsal. The ballet girls, while silly and tittering on their own time, went straight to the barre and diligently stretched and warmed up their muscles under Integra's watchful eye. (She noted that Seras Victoria was one of the last to scramble in again, with dark circles under her eyes, and her movements seemed a bit awkward and absent-minded.)

While Integra was very stern and no-nonsense in those days, she secretly loved the artistic chaos of the backstage of the opera.

They were to perform _Faust_ , a French opera based on a famous German poem. That season, Mapleson, who wished to dabble in a new and original opera, "Hannibal," for his final stretch as manager, found himself forced to comply when their German prima donna pulled rank and refused to sing unless it was a German opera like she wanted. She always wanted German operas. (The season before they had performed _Der Freischütz,_ or "The Freeshooter", her favorite, on her "request.") She might have been put in her place had not the _real_ master of the opera not agreed with her choice, and Mapleson found himself compelled to acquiesce.

Rehearsals went well enough, but they had the most difficulty with Act 4 and 5, which were supposed to be the most tragic for the heroine, Marguerite. The opera was loosely based on Faust, a scholar who sold his soul to the Devil, represented by the demon Mephistopheles. In this version of the story, Faust was an old scholar who sold his soul for youth and good looks, and fell for the sweet, innocent, virginal ingénue Marguerite, whom due to the Mephistopheles' influence Faust seduced and abandoned, leaving her with a child and a tarnished reputation. Ruined and disgraced, Marguerite is driven to infanticide and then suicide by public execution for killing her baby. Still virtuous in heart if not in body, she rejects Faust's offer to save her by choosing instead to put her faith in God, where she ascends to Heaven.

However, despite the tragedy Marguerite is put the prima donna was a silly girl who reveled in attention she had yet to receive, and so she sang merrily despite the tragedy her character was put through. It was especially difficult in the second to final act when she was publically scorned by the villagers, and the final one when she should have rejected her lover's rescue to put her faith in God.

Naturally, Mr. Walter C. Dornez, the repetiteur, caught this.

"Stop! Stop!"

 _"Was? Was?"_ she cried, somewhat peeved to be interrupted.

"Fräulein Rip Van Winkle, what was that?"

"Singing! Like you asked."

"Fräulein Rip Van Winkle, we have been over this. You are Marguerite—"

"Gretchen," she corrected, as that was the name of the character in the German version of the story.

"Gretchen. Either way, your lover Faust has seduced and abandoned you. Your brother died cursing your name. Despite temptation, you have rejected your treacherous lover's offer of freedom—"

"Ah! A foolish choice, if you ask me," she said, smiling winningly at the tenor who played Faust. Rip Van Winkle made it no secret that she thought "Gretchen" (Marguerite, whomever) should have run away with Faust when he offered to save her in the end, but the managers put their foot down at this alternate ending.

"A foolish choice, but a choice you have made none the less," he said stoically. "And you have decided to face death with dignity by putting your faith in God. Please try to act sad about it. Now, from the top!"

And the maestro signaled the band to begin the song again. Rip Van Winkle scoffed slightly, as she never liked to be interrupted or corrected. To her credit, she went along with it and tried to act sad as she rejected Faust's offer to save her and face her death bravely.

Some of the maids who kept the theatre clean for guests exchanged glances.

"That Rip Van Winkle, ever the prima donna," they said.

"She's a good singer, that one, but she lacks character."

"She gets the notes right; she just doesn't have heart."

They had a point. While Rip Van Winkle had been classically trained in all the best schools in Europe, and loved opera with a passion never seen by anyone before or since meeting her, she was a better technical singer than actress. She hit all the right notes and possessed a charming amount of charisma that pleased the audience, but most operas were about or ended in tragedy, while she could not help letting her girlish love of the stage cloud her ability to portray sufficient melancholy or heartbreak.

She was still young and giddy as a schoolgirl, and treated the stage like a debutante's coming out ball. While she was not haughty or malicious like other prima donnas, the fact was she was rather vain, spoiled, and attention-seeking. While, to her credit, she was nice to the other girls and friendly enough to anyone who came upon her, whether they be men or women, rich or poor, foreign or domestic, the fact was the stardom that came with being a celebrated prima donna had gone to her head, and she was far too accustomed to getting her way all the time.

While she rehearsed her final song, Mapleson went to greet the new managers, who had just arrived. Enthusiastically (perhaps _too_ enthusiastically), he ran to greet the newly arrived gentlemen. They barely had a moment to wait for him.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, thanks you for coming!" he said, warmly shaking their hands.

"P-please, the pleasure is ours," the second of the gentlemen said, dabbing the sweat from his brow.

The first was a very tall, ancient gentleman with a gruff, businesslike disposition. His name was Mr. Hugh Irons, and his iron grip and steely glare were true to his name. Mapleson massaged his own palm after shaking Mr. Irons' hand, and hastily went to greet the Mr. Penwood.

Mr. Penwood was rather short, portly, nervous man who sweated when he had to talk to strangers or make important decisions, and was often seen dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. Still, he was a very friendly and charming fellow who wanted to be liked.

They each greeted Mapleson with smiles; Mr. Irons' smile was wire-thin, while Mr. Penwood's smile was nervous and eager to please.

While the chorus joined Rip Van Winkle for the next scene, Mapleson guided Irons and Penwood through the wings, explaining away the chaos of the last minute costume changes and set modifications.

"Terrible state, terrible," he said, motioning the costume tailors and set designers putting last-minute touches on the production.

"You should have had all of this done away with weeks ago," Sir Irons said, straight to the point. "Why did you wait until the day of the opening night?"

"Ah, that," Mapleson said, running a hand through his hair. "When you have been in the business as long as I have, you know that preparations for a show are never complete until the curtain has gone up." He paused, "I confess it would not have been this close a call had our prima donna not desire a few last-minute changes before opening curtain. Wanted to have it more 'authentically German,' as she put it—"

He had led them on the stage by this point, so they could both see clearly and were in the way of several chorus members.

Mr. Dornez sighed in exasperation. "Mr. Mapleson! We are _rehearsing!"_

"Yes, yes, quite. But I have a brief announcement to make." He clapped his hands to get attention. "Ladies and gentlemen?"

They continued to talk and laugh.

"Ladies and gentlemen?" he called over the ruckus, but could not get any help.

He then turned imploringly to Lady Integra, the stern ballet mistress.

"Mistress Integra, help?"

She slammed her cane against the floor once, and everyone shut up. She nodded to Mapleson.

"Thank you, Lady Hellsing," he said, and cleared his throat. "May I have your attention please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true."

A round of murmurs circulated the stage, and Rip Van Winkle cried, "A-ha! I was right!" at Tubalcain Alhambra, who had not believed the rumors.

Mr. Mapleson continued, "and it is my pleasure to introduce to you to the two gentlemen who now own Her Majesty's Theatre, Mr. Irons and Mr. Penwood."

A polite applause circled around from the cast and staff.

A few ballet girls, who were always on the lookout for patrons, murmured, "They must be rich!" and fluttered their eyelashes at them.

This was lost on the two managers. Mr. Irons nodded curtly, taking this deference as his due, while Mr. Penwood simpered and nodded appreciatively. Not wasting any time, Rip Van Winkle sauntered over to them with a winning grin and made her presence felt.

Mr. Mapleson said, "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Fräulein Rip Van Winkle, our leading soprano for five seasons now."

Her introduction elicited a strained applause from the chorus. Not noticing the lackluster reception, she stretched her hand out grandly to the managers. Mr. Penwood looked elated, and kissed it without a second thought.

"A great pleasure, Fräulein. A great pleasure," he simpered. "I have experienced all of your greatest roles."

"Ah! Mr. Penwood, you flatter me!" she grinned winningly.

Mr. Irons was less impressed, and merely nodded curtly.

"Our leading tenor, Signor Tubalcain Alhambra," Mapleson said.

His introduction was met with greater applause than Rip's had been.

"He plays very well opposite Rip Van Winkle," Mapleson added.

Rip Van Winkle's eyes turned misty and starry-eyed. "That he does."

Even from the highest rafters where the stage hands worked, everyone could see that Rip Van Winkle was starry-eyed over him, and he often flashed roguish grins at her. Rumor had it they were lovers outside the opera, which surprised no one. While imminently popular and having many admirers and beaus of her own, everyone could see that Rip Van Winkle openly favored Alhambra and hung off his arm at every high society gala and party. While the Dandy Man had a reputation for being… well, a dandy man, it was also obvious that he spent the most amount of time and gave the most amount of attention to Rip Van Winkle.

There was a betting pool going around the opera staff of when he would tire of her as he tired with other maidens, but due to his uncharacteristically long devotion to her, others guessed they were secretly married.

Regardless of their personal relationship, their professional relationship was indeed a good one. The one bit of in-character acting talent Rip Van Winkle displayed on stage was playing the role of a maiden who was in love with the character Alhambra portrayed, since she felt that way about him in person.

"Speaking of playing across Rip Van Winkle, we have rehearsals, gentlemen," Mr. Dornez said politely but firmly. "Would you mind stepping aside a moment?"

"Of course. My apologies, Mr. Dornez," Marpleson said, "Proceed."

"Thank you, sir," he said, and then turned to Rip Van Winkle. "Once more, from the top."

"Mr. Walter C. Dornez, our chief repetiteur," Mapleson said as they walked to the side of the stage. "Rather a tyrant, I'm afraid."

After the song ended and "Gretchen" fell dead on the floor, the chorus and ballet girls emerged. Another addition to the opera made by Rip Van Winkle. While traditionally the female chorus alone dressed in flowing white to guide Marguerite—er, Gretchen to Heaven, now a dozen ballet dancers also danced gracefully around her, enchanting Gretchen with their beauty and grace, as they all took her by the hand and guided her to Heaven. Dressed in flowing white tulle and ribbons like God's angels, the ballet girls began their graceful dance around the chorus girls and the prima donna. Irons and Penwood stood center stage, forgetting they were in the way due to their admiration of the girls.

Annoyed, Lady Integra walked up to them. "Gentlemen, if you would kindly move aside?"

"Oh! Yes, of course," Mapleson said, and hastily ushered Irons and Penwood to the side of the stage.

To Irons and Penwood, he said, "Miss Hellsing, our ballet mistress. She never performed a day in her life, but her father was a dedicated patron of this theatre, and she has attended so many performances and rehearsals that she could choreograph a whole ballet in her sleep. I don't mind confessing that I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business."

Penwood said, "I keep asking you, sir, why exactly are you retiring?"

Seeing Lady Integra approaching, he ignored him. "Ah! Here she comes now!" and made himself scarce.

To their surprise, the stern and serious looking Lady Integra walked beside them, keeping her keen eye on the ballet girls.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I trust your families are well?"

"Indeed they are, Miss Integra," Irons said. "I trust your fortune is well?"

"As well as it will ever be, sir," she said, ignoring his pointed barb against her decision not to marry.

Irons and Penwood were Oxford schoolfellows and business associates of her father's. They had all known Integra since she was a young girl, and saw to it that she was well looked after as she grew up. It was on Walter's suggestion that they become the new managers of the theatre so as to keep the business close to home, but already Integra could see that their familiarity with her would soon prove to be a problem.

"We take particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets, gentlemen" she said as they walked along.

"I can see why!" Penwood said delightedly.

"Especially that little blonde angel in the front," Irons said, pointing with his cane.

"Seras Victoria," she said simply. "Promising talent, sir. Very promising."

Seras Victoria tried to ignore them so she could focus on her dancing. She was slightly more buxom than the other girls, with a full figure despite a ballet dancer's scant salary. (They were payed a pittance only for performances, and were expected to rehearse unpaid every day for six to eight weeks between said shows.) Her short, messy blonde hair framed her face and flew around her head when she spun. She had pale skin, rosy cheeks, a supple figure, and long beautiful legs that came in handy when she danced; but there was a rustic awkwardness that years of training had not managed to smooth out. Despite her great beauty and naturally long limbs, she looked and felt like she had to concentrate twice as hard as the other girls to dance half as gracefully as them.

"Victoria, you say?" Penwood said with interest. "No relation to Mary Victoria, the famous prima donna?"

Seras' mother had been a famous soprano who sang at the Paris Opera back when it was one of the greatest in Europe, despite her English heritage. She had had a bright and promising future, but shortly into her career she eloped with a British officer and quit the business. While it was not uncommon for opera singers and ballet dancers to marry and have children, typically they still stayed in the business one way or another, and raised their children to become singers and dancers like them. What struck high society as odd, and what the press speculated about for weeks after her departure, was why she should quit so early when her triumph was still fresh and her career still underway, and that she should leave the country to live like a normal middle class house wife.

This was why Irons and Penwood recognized the name, as well as the identical blonde hair and features, and inquired about the famous Mary Victoria.

"Her only child," Integra explained. "She was orphaned at age seven, when she came to live and train here in the theatre dormitories."

"An orphan, you say?" Irons said. "I trust we shall see great talent from her in the future."

"I doubt that very much, sir," Mapleson said, rejoining them. "When she first came here, her voice sounded like a rusty door hinge. Of course, we would have liked to place her with the other chorus girls, to honor her late mother's will, but we found that we had no choice but to place her in the ballet. She makes a better dancer than a singer."

Hearing all of this, Seras looked increasingly distressed as she spun and spun, until she fell out of step.

Integra banged her cane against the floor. "Seras Victoria! Concentrate, girl!"

Seras flinched, and struggled to fall back into step with the others.

"A pity she did not inherit her mother's talent," Irons said.

"A great pity," Integra said non-committedly as the ballet girls and the chorus re-entered the stage and Rip Van Winkle was to ascend Heaven. "Gentlemen, if you would step off to one side?"

The music swelled, and the opera ended.

When it ended, the new managers applauded. Mr. Irons, who is rarely impressed, looked almost sullen as he clapped. Mr. Penwood, who was rather easily impressed, applauded with many praises.

"Bravo! Bravo! Magnifico!"

The cast was very delighted, and they all bowed or nodded their heads. Rip Van Winkle, who was hungrier for attention than anyone else, ran up to him grinning like a child and twirling for more praise and applause.

"Splendid!" Penwood said. "Absolutely splendid!"

"Ah! Danke!" she breathed, "Danke Schön!"

"I must say!" Penwood said, oozing charm and appreciation. "I have read this night's directory, and if I remember rightly, a rather fine aria has been added in Act Three of "Faust." I wonder, Fräulein, if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" Seeing Walter's face, he added somewhat apologetically. "Unless, of course, M. Dornez objects?"

Rip sighed and curtsied. "As my manager commands..." she said with feigned humility. Turning to Walter, she said, "Mr. Dornez?"

Walter sighed. "As my _diva_ commands. Will two bars be sufficient introduction?"

Irons said curtly, "Two bars will be quite sufficient."

Rip cleared her throat, and took a dramatic stance. While the song was supposed to be sad and sweet, filled with longing and melancholy, she made up for the lack of all these things by waxing melodramatic.

 _Think of me, think of me fondly_

 _When we've said goodbye_

 _Remember me, once in a while_

 _Please, promise me you'll try  
_

As was often the case with Rip Van Winkle, one could not say there was anything technically wrong with her singing. She hit all the right notes, and she had great amount of stage presence. She was beautiful and charming, but if one were to search for a word, they would say that she simply lacked that… that spark, that spirit, that soul that made the difference between good art and great art. Unaware of this, she continued to sing.

As she sang, a few on the edge of stage felt a chill go down their backs as they noticed shadows flickering in their peripheral vision. The one soul brave enough to look up at the rafter, ropes and pulleys above, called "the flies," saw a huge dark shadow move along the wall.

 _On that day,_

 _That not so distant day_

 _When you are far away and—_

A few ballet girls screamed. A backdrop, longer than the curtains and held up by a thick wooden pole, fell from high up in the flies. It was heavy enough to need at least two men to lift it with the ropes and pulleys behind the stage, and it fell from a great high over the twig of a girl standing at center stage. She dodged just in time not to be crushed under its great weight, but it did fall right on her ankles.

She and all the other girls on stage screamed, and the cast on the stage all panicked and scattered. The men quickly worked to get it off her, while chorus and ballet girls alike screamed and pointed up.

"It's him!"

"He's here!"

"The phantom of the opera!"

"He is with us!"

"It's the ghost!"

Seras alone did not gasp, scream, or shriek. She alone looked up in silent terror, and her face turned paler than anyone else's.

As they screamed and panicked Mr. Irons and Penwood tried to call for order, Irons showing particular impatience with their "superstitious nonsense."

"Silence, you foolish girls!" he snapped after a spell.

While this happened the men desperately tried to dig Rip Van Winkle out of the crumpled backdrop, then hurriedly examined her for injuries. To his credit, the Dandy Man showed the most concern for her safety and well-being, and was visibly relieved when she was not seriously hurt. The wooden pole of the backdrop had fallen on her leg, though, and she was loudly and melodramatically crying about it.

"My leg ist broken!" she wailed, "I shall never sing again!" and she wailed some more.

After a swift but meticulous examination, Lady Integra said sternly, "It's not broken, only sprained."

"It is! It ist broken! I shall never walk again! Wah!" she sobbed.

As this went on the whole cast continued to gasp and murmur fearfully.

Amid the chaos, Mr. Irons sternly called up, "For God's sake, man! What the devil is going on up there?!"

And Joseph Smith, the old master of the flies, a lazy and lecherous lout who often peaked at the ballet dancers in their dressing room, cried, "Please sir, don't look at me! As God's my witness, I was not at my post!"

"Not at your post?" Irons cried incredulously. "Then what the devil are we paying you for?!"

While they talked, Integra steadied Seras' laborious breathing and then slipped quietly away from the crowd to the inspect the shadows of the wings and the flies.

"Please sir, believe me, there's no one there," he said, pulling up the backdrop that had fallen.

As he spoke, the mysterious shadows, unnoticed by all except Integra, receded from the flies. Instead, a single letter drifted down to where she stood. She picked it up, finding the familiar seal made of red wax pressed in the shape of the Seal of Cromwell.

"But if there is," Smith said mysteriously. "Well then, it must be a ghost."

This frightened the ballet girls all over again.

"He's here! The phantom of the opera!" one of the girls screamed out.

"Good Heavens! I have never heard such insolence!" Irons cried in contempt.

"For God's sake, man!" Alhambra cried out, borrowing the common English expression. "Cannot you show a little more concern for our prima donna?"

"I can't believe you do not care for me in my hour of need!" Rip Van Winkle sniffed.

Eager to pacify her, Penwood said apologetically. "My deepest apologies, Fraulein. These things do happen."

This was the wrong thing to say. Like flipping a switch, she went from sniffling pitifully to rounding on him furiously.

" 'These things do happen?'" she screeched, "You have only been her for five minutes! What would you know? 'These things do happen!' Ja! Ja! All the time these things do happen!"

She then pointed furiously at Mapleson. "For the past three years these things do happen, and did you stop them from happening? Nein!"

To Irons and Penwood she screamed shrilly, "And you! You are as bad as him. 'These things do happen!' Well, until you stop _these things_ from happening, _this thing_ ," she pointed to her face, "does not happen!"

To Alhambra, she snapped, "Alhambra! Anidamo!"

And she stormed out, followed by two attendants, limping as she went.

Alhambra lingered just long enough to smirk, "Amateurs," before joining his lady love.

Penwood sighed heavily and dabbed his now raining eyebrows.

Mapleson said briskly, "Well, gentlemen, I leave this in your capable hands."

"You aren't leaving right now?!" Irons cried incredulously

Eager to leave, Mapleson said quickly, "I wish I could stay, but I don't think there's much more I can do to assist you, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in South America."

And with that, he all but ran out.

The company then turned to the new managers, who were left overwhelmed by the events and hadn't a clue what to do.

"She will come back?" Penwood asked Walter.

"If you grovel," he said, not missing a beat.

"You think so?" Integra said mysteriously, joining the gentlemen where they huddled. She flashed the letter written in black ink. "I have a message from the Opera Ghost."

"Opera Ghost? God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Irons cried in contempt.

"He merely welcomes you to his opera house," Integra began.

" _His_ opera house?" Irons said, scandalized.

"And commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use," she said calmly, pointing to the box in question with her cane. "And reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?!" Irons cried.

"Mr. Mapleson paid him twenty thousand pounds a month."

"Twenty thousand pounds?!" Irons cried furiously, snatching the letter from her hands to read for himself.

"Perhaps you can afford more," Integra said calmly, "with the Hellsing family as your patrons."

"Madam, I do not answer to the demands of 'ghosts' or madmen," Sir Irons said firmly, and began tearing the letter up. "Not that it matters now, seeing as we have to **cancel** , as it appears we have lost our **star!** " Sir Irons concluded, throwing the shredded letter in the air.

Hearing the word 'cancel,' the entire cast and crew of the opera gasped and murmured in distress.

Trying to appease everyone, Mr. Penwood stuttered nervously. "P-p-perhaps there's an-an-an…" one of the cast provided the word, "An understudy!"

"Understudy?!" the maestro cried. "There is no _'understudy'_ for **_Rip Van Winkle!"_**

"Seras Victoria could sing it," Integra said calmly but firmly.

Suddenly, all eyes flew to the little opera rat. Seras, who had stood quietly off to the side until now, suddenly turned deathly pale and shrank from the spotlight.

"What? A ballet girl?" Penwood cried.

"Don't be silly," Mr. Irons said dismissively.

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher," Integra said.

Sir Irons stared at Seras for a long moment. "From whom?"

Turning paler still, Seras squeaked, "I do not know his name, sir."

Mr. Irons scoffed. "Not you as well!"

"It appears we'll have to refund a full house," Sir Penwood said, dabbing his brow nervously.

"Let her sing from you, sirs," Integra said calmly and firmly, standing tall and confident where Seras shrank back nervous and uneasy. "She has been well-taught."

Mr. Irons and Mr. Penwood exchanged glances. Figuring they had nothing left to lose, they consented.

At that moment, Walter came to the rescue and coaxed Seras. "From the beginning of the aria then, Miss Victoria."

The music started up again, slow and soft and romantic. Seras swallowed, took a step forward, and willed herself enough courage to sing. She thought back to her early childhood, to her beloved vacation in the little cottage in the country, where her dear childhood friend lived. She thought of grassy fields and beautiful golden sunsets with a mop of messy copper hair and sun-kissed freckles that dotted an earnest, smiling face. She thought of mud pies and stones skipping across the river, of tattered hems from playing outside, and holding hands with a boy with the most beautiful emerald green eyes. As she sang she willed herself to remember this dear friend whom she thought of every day but whom she felt sure had forgotten she existed.

 _Think of me…_

 _Think of me fondly_

 _When we've said goodbye_

 _Remember me, once in a while_

 _Please, promise me you'll try_

"Well, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Irons said bluntly.

"Don't fret, Hugho," Mr. Penwood said, who was rather impressed with her performance.

While the notes started off a little shaky, what she lacked in skill she made up for with heart and pure emotion. As she began to gain confidence, soon Seras sang just as technically well as Rip Van Winkle, only she also carried a lot of heart and soul.

Soon the skepticism and frowns melted from the faces of the cast and crew, and they all looked at her with shock and astonishment. Surely, this couldn't be Seras Victoria? This couldn't be the same opera rat who used to croak like a toad?!

Gaining confidence, Seras stepped forward,

 _And though it's clear_

 _Though it was always clear_

 _That this was never meant to be_

 _If you happen to remember_

 _Stop and think of me..._

Mr. Irons and Mr. Penwood smiled at each other. They had their new prima donna.

High up in the rafters, a mysterious entity covered in shadows smiled.


End file.
